Fragments
by Hiding.in.the.cookie.jar
Summary: AU. In which Sherlock is an autistic adult and John is his carer. Chapter 3 - Sherlock runs away in the middle of the night. Mycroft knows why and John can't catch a break.
1. Silence

**AN: Hello! Uh... I hope you like this and I hope I have written it well (especially autistic!Sherlock). Mmm... That's all I have to say. :)**

John had only been taking care of Sherlock for six days and he was already on his last nerve. See, John Watson was a carer and he was assigned to live with Sherlock Holmes - a 35 year-old autistic, stubborn man. Sherlock had an older brother, Mycroft, but he had been no help. He had only met John once and gave him a brief description of the needs of his younger brother then left them alone in their new flat, 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock, you need to take it," John said sternly.

To add on the list of unfortunates, Sherlock hated taking his medication. Mycroft had warned John that he will try to convince anyone that he doesn't need the pills.

"Sherlock, please."

They sat in the kitchen after breakfast. The little red tablets of chlorpromazine laid in front of Sherlock, who was shaking his head furiously. In the previous nights he had made Sherlock stay at the table until he took them. Eventually, Sherlock would grow restless after hours of sitting and take them before running off to his room. John sighed and sat down next to him.

In a gentle voice he asked, "What do I need to do for you to take them?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders - he hadn't said a word to John yet. Mycroft had said that he had bad days where he wouldn't talk and just pout. The drugs were supposed to take care of this but apparently they didn't take care of it enough. Mycroft had also said that Sherlock could just be nervous around a new carer since he hadn't had any luck with his past ones (he didn't care to elaborate on that part).

"Do you want me to call your brother?" Sherlock shook his head. "Then buck up and take them."

For a minute Sherlock looked at the floor, then he grabbed the pills. He gave a mournful look at John before he shoved them in his mouth.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" John said with a smile.

Sherlock remained silent for the rest of the day.

* * *

There wasn't much to do in the flat. Neither of them watched much television, Sherlock mainly read or looked at police articles online - it was his obsession. He enjoyed trying to solve past and present murders or kidnappings (and he was rather good at it). Sometimes, at night, John could hear him plucking his violin in his bedroom. John had to make meals for Sherlock, make sure he didn't get into any sort of trouble, and generally make sure that he took care of himself. Sherlock didn't move from his chair too often and he would always bathe or go to bed on his own accord but always at reasonable times. The only problems John ever truly had with Sherlock were his afore mentioned medication and the silence.

This was, at least, the situation during the first few weeks. On the 15th day, John woke Sherlock up at the crack of dawn. Christmas was in a few days and they had been invited to spend it in Oxford with Sherlock's family (John didn't have much of a family, or he didn't like to talk about them). John had planned everything out perfectly. He went shopping with Sherlock last week (I'm not sure what John was expecting but it didn't go too well), he got train tickets for 10 am so they could get there around noon, and he was going to wake Sherlock up four hours before that so they could make it at the station in time with a little time to spare.

Sherlock padded into the kitchen when he smelled John making oatmeal. He looked exhausted with his hair sticking up in different directions and his eyes still half-closed.

"I heard you playing your violin all last night," John said placing a bowl of oatmeal in front of him.

Sherlock still wasn't saying anything, which deeply worried John. He wasn't sure if something was wrong or if Sherlock just didn't want to talk. Either way, he would find out soon.

Just like every other meal, they ate in silence. Then, they finished packing - John did most of it; Sherlock fell back asleep after a few socks. In fact, he fell asleep in the cab, and on the train, and then on the cab ride to Mrs. Holmes's house. John found it slightly adorable how innocent he looked. Finally, the cab stopped outside the house. John was ready to get out and rest after so much travel but Sherlock had his head against the window, still sleeping. His black curls fell in his pale face, looking delicate like a porcelain doll.

"We're here," John shook him.

The younger man groaned and rubbed his eyes. He blinked up at the large house and slowly got out with John. Sherlock walked ahead while John was paying the cabbie. By the time the door was being opened John was jogging up the steps to the front door.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Holmes greeted with a hug.

Mrs. Holmes was tall like her sons and had long white hair - that was partially pulled back - with a wrinkly face. She wore black trousers with a beautiful blue jumper that complimented her warm eyes quite well. John could immediately tell that Sherlock took after his mother with his lankiness and delicate features. And what really struck John was how he smiled in his mother's embrace.

"You must be John," she said after releasing Sherlock.

"Yes. It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Holmes," John was a bit awkward.

"You too. Your rooms are ready upstairs - they are the first two on the left - you can freshen up there. The bathroom is a few more rooms down the hall and the one down here is just over there, past the dining room. Sherlock knows where everything is, ask him if you get lost. Lunch will be ready in an hour. Also, Mycroft won't be getting here until later this afternoon."

John took in all of the information. He nodded and led Sherlock upstairs. They unpacked Sherlock's bag first and then John went to unpack his own. After a few minutes Sherlock walked into his room and silently sat on the bed.

"You don't have to be here, Sherlock," John consented.

Sherlock didn't move; he continued to watch John until he finished. By the time they had both gotten situated a servant had came up to fetch them for lunch. For the first time in weeks, John didn't eat in silence. Mrs. Holmes was a very intelligent women who knew very much about her son's condition. It turned out when Sherlock was little, she would spend all her free time reading textbooks on autism. John was very impressed. It wasn't as though most parents didn't read up on their child's condition, it was just that Mrs. Holmes understood it in a way that could make her a major on the subject and become a psychologist. They had talked about simple things all throughout lunch, Mrs. Holmes questioning Sherlock why he was so quiet every now and then.

Hours later, Mrs. Holmes and John were still chatting over tea while Sherlock was curled up in a chair reading.

"That should be Mycroft," Mrs. Holmes had said at the sound of the doorbell.

Sherlock closed his book and nearly ran down the hall way. Mrs. Holmes laughed.

"It's just like when they were children. Mycroft would get home from school and Sherlock would come running with -"

"I don't think he likes me," John blurted.

Mrs. Holmes could only stare at him for a moment. "Sherlock?"

"Yeah. He doesn't seem to want to have anything to do me."

"John, you know how autism will make him withdrawn."

"He hasn't said a word to me since we've met. I'm starting to get concerned."

Mrs. Holmes assumed a very worried expression. Neither of them said anything for several minutes. They could vaguely hear Mycroft talking to Sherlock while they walked up the stairs.

"I didn't know John. He won't speak on occasion but he's never -" she cut herself off. "You mustn't blame yourself. No. It's probably just stress. He'll be himself soon."

"That's what Mycroft told me the first day."

Mrs. Holmes smiled gently and cupped her hand around John's face. "I'm his mother. Trust me."

John did trust her. He felt that now Mycroft was there Sherlock would start to improve. Dinner proved him wrong.

It was a nice meal and a nice conversation that no one really cared about. Everyone's attention was secretly on Sherlock who had his head down, continuously stirring his soup. He could feel all the attention and he didn't like it. There was nothing to like when he knew that they all had been talking about him just moments before. Other than that, everything was going smoothly - until Mycroft had to start talking.

"Why aren't you eating?" he had gently asked.

Sherlock looked up at him and did something with his hands that John could only guess was sign language.

"Use your words, Sherlock."

Again he signed a response.

"Sherlock, sweetie, you know I don't like it when you don't speak," Mrs. Holmes replied in a motherly voice.

There was no response. They both gave up after that. Sherlock kneaded his shirt and rocked slightly throughout the rest of dinner. When their plates had been cleared away John took Sherlock upstairs. His watch beeped just in time when John was putting the pills and a paper cup into Sherlock's hands.

"Are you alright?" he whispered.

Sherlock nodded his head quickly before swallowing the pills. His actions were rewarded with a smile from John.

"Do you want to go to bed or go back downstairs?"

After some thought, Sherlock pointed to the stairs across from them. John nodded and they went back to watch the documentary on Jack the Ripper (it had been Sherlock's choice but was really quite interesting).

Mrs. Holmes retired for the night after the movie ended but the rest of them stayed up to watch reruns of QI. John only made it half-way through one episode before Mycroft nudged him awake. He gave him a look that meant "go to bed, I'll make sure Sherlock follows soon." Or at least that was what John hoped it meant because he bid them both good night and made for the stairs. He paused, though, when he heard an unfamiliar voice say, "Good night, John."


	2. Christmas eve

**AN: I know I know I said this would be updated sooner but I was having problems with this chapter for some reason. Thank you for everyone who reviewed or followed or favorited. I hope you guys like this chapter just as much. :)**

John stared at Sherlock, words beyond him. He walked back into the living room with the biggest smile he had ever worn. Mycroft, too, was watching his brother in delight.

"Sherlock?" John laughed.

"Hello," Sherlock said.

John ran a hand through his hair, laughing even harder. Sherlock's voice was low and sweet. It slightly resembled Alan Rickman's, John noted. Only not as nasal.

"It's nice to hear you, finally," John said sitting back down.

Sherlock smiled shyly at the floor. At first John thought that he wasn't going to say anything else but then -

"You don't like your sister or, more specifically, her drinking habits. She gave you her old phone - you couldn't afford your own so she gave you hers. I know it's hers because you haven't worked in a while - when we first met you seemed too anxious and your clothes were at least two years old, so you couldn't afford a new wardrobe, let alone a phone as nice as yours." Sherlock took a breath and held out his hands. "Can I see your phone?"

John's jaw was nearly to the floor as he fumbled for his phone.

"Now," Sherlock took the phone and held it up for inspection. "If that wasn't enough proof then there are scratches on the screen and… pretty much everywhere else. It tells me that it has been in the same pocket as keys or coins but you wouldn't treat a phone like that, I've seen you butter toast with more delicacy than a surgeon. And I know it was your sister because of the engraving on the back: 'To Harriet, love Clara xxx.' By the three x's I can tell Clara is a lover - a past one at that. Why else would your sister give up her phone?

"For the drunk part, there are scratch marks surrounding the power connection. This implies that the previous user was constantly drunk when they were trying to plug it in every night. You never see a sober man's phone with these marks and never see a drunk's without them.

"And how can I tell you don't like her? You never call her or have any pictures of her on your phone. Also, we were shopping last week and you didn't buy anything for her. That doesn't give me a sense of brotherly love. But she still gave it to you in hopes that she could make things right again. I know this is rather sudden but I've been holding it in for weeks."

John couldn't even pick up the phone when Sherlock handed it out to him. When Sherlock saw John's expression of surprise he sheepishly placed the phone on the coffee table in front of them and pulled his knees up to chin. He was going back into his shell.

"That… was absolutely brilliant," John choked out.

Sherlock looked back over at him. "Really?"

"Yes! I've never seen anyone be able to do that before! It was amazing."

"People don't usually say that," Mycroft said for his brother who was getting too excited to talk.

"What else would they say?"

"It really depends. Most of them just get scared and leave. Some tell him to piss off," Mycroft turned to his brother. "How long did it take you to figure that out?"

"Less than a minute for the alcoholic sister, a minute for him not liking her, and immediately for the phone not being his," Sherlock buried his head into his knees and laughed.

"You seem to be getting better. I don't think you've ever pulled something that large so quickly before. I'm not sure I would have been able to see that they didn't get along so quickly."

While Sherlock laughed from pure excitement again, John gave Mycroft a puzzled look.

"Wait, you can do this too?" he asked.

"The correct term is deduction and yes. Even though Sherlock has always had a sort of talent for it, I tutored him, if you will."

That's how John became introduced to the science of deduction and its two finest participants.

* * *

It felt amazing for John to sleep in. Sherlock always woke up early and John did to, consequently, but today he didn't have to make breakfast or assure Sherlock didn't leave the flat. And it was Christmas eve - not only the day before John's favorite holiday but also the day after he was on speaking terms with Sherlock.

After a shower, John went downstairs to the living room where apparently everyone else was at. He stopped right outside the huge closed doors that led to the living room when he heard Sherlock talking about him.

"But I did start talking to John," Sherlock nearly whined.

"I know, darling. I just want to know why it took so long. Were you nervous?"

"No."

"Sherlock, can you just tell me?"

There wasn't a response.

"Is it because of father?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock still didn't say anything.

"That was years ago, Sherlock, you need to start trying to get over it. You were practically a child."

"That's enough, Mycroft," Mrs. Holmes started talking a quiet, soothing voice. "Sweetie, you can't keep it bundled up. We're both here if you need to talk to about -"

"I don't need to talk! I'm fine!" Sherlock yelled.

John was clueless and a bit mad about Sherlock's outburst. He hadn't really thought about the absence of Mr. Holmes and had just assumed that he had died but he didn't like how Mycroft was telling his brother to get over it. It took a few minutes for John to calm down and make sure they had stopped talking. Then, he walked in, pretending he hadn't heard anything.

"Good morning, John," Mrs. Holmes greeted.

"Morning," John said but most of his attention was on Sherlock.

He was in the chair beside his mum with his arms around his knees. With his left hand, he was furiously kneading his trouser leg.

"Mycroft told me you and Sherlock had a nice chat last night?" She said as John sat down near Sherlock. "Did he show off for you?"

"He did, yeah. It was quite amazing. Actually, Sherlock, I was thinking and I was wondering how you got my phone?"

Sherlock looked up at him and held up his hands to start signing. Great, John thought we're back to where we started. Mycroft sighed before translating.

"He said that you left it out to charge one night and he had a chance to look at it."

"Ah," John nodded understandingly. They were silent for a bit more before John decided he needed to play dumb. "Sherlock, I really enjoyed talking to you last night. Why did you stop?"

Sherlock again signed.

"He prefers to sign," Mycroft translated.

"But you can't deduce if you don't talk."

"'I can tell what kind of toothpaste and razor you used from here. Deduction does not involve talking.' You're being childish now," Mycroft scolded.

They gave up trying to make Sherlock talk during breakfast and it wasn't until afterwards did he speak. While Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes went to pull tree decorations out of the attic and servants cleaned up, John was giving Sherlock his medication.

"I'd like it if you talked," John tried.

"I'll talk for you," Sherlock mumbled.

John had to smile a little bit. "Why not talk for anyone else?"

"You're nicer."

"Your mother and brother are nice."

"I like you better, though."

"Don't say that -"

"Not just out of my family but out of everyone I've known. You're the only one that has ever been nice to me. Don't make me talk to them!"

John found it hard to go against the desperate way Sherlock pleaded with him. "How about we make a deal. I won't make you talk today if you take your pills right now."

They seemed to have forgotten about them. They were laying on the table taking a dirty look from Sherlock.

"Come on, you took them last night without a problem."

"I won't have to say anything?" Sherlock mumbled after some time.

John shook his head and Sherlock hesitantly took the pills.

"What's wrong with the pills?" John asked.

"I just don't like medications."

"Why not?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and left the dining room. John followed him out to the living room where Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft were opening old boxes of expensive ornaments. They were so beautiful, John wasn't sure he had seen any decorations that could compare. When he put them on the tree he walked slowly from the box on the sofa to the tree and gently placed one a branch, taking a minute to make sure it would stay. Sherlock, on the other hand, sat on the floor by John with a smaller box by him and would grab one at random and hang it haphazardly. He even dropped a few in his lap and one slid off of a higher branch; John cringed when he heard it hit the ground. Luckily, it didn't brake.

"Be careful, dear," Mrs. Holmes had said sweetly.

It took close to three hours for the tree to be perfected (which was perfectly reasonable since it was just about twice the size of John). Sherlock had lost interest about an hour in and had been curled up in the chair he dominated, reading his book about the moors murders - John later heard, in graphic detail, how Ian Brady and Myra Hindley killed children (but that was weeks later and has nothing to do with this story). While everyone else finished preparing for Christmas later that evening, Sherlock continued reading about his serial killers.

By the time midnight came round John and Mycroft were the only ones still awake. They were sitting in silence before John broke it.

"What's wrong with Sherlock?" he started awkwardly.

"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked, not looking up from his book.

"Earlier today, he was practically begging me to not make him talk."

"That's normal for Sherlock. And you shouldn't have given in so easily."

"I couldn't help it. I felt sorry for him."

"Is this the only reason you think something is wrong with my brother?" Mycroft put down his book, becoming aggravated.

"No. If he's had behavior problems with his past 17 carers, why does it seem like he's trying to make himself invisible now?"

"He's not trying to make himself invisible."

"Then what do you call this? All he did today was read and I'm sure that the only reason he went to bed so early was because he didn't want to be around us."

"'Us' John? I heard you two talking after breakfast and he made it pretty clear that he would only tolerate you. Do you know why that is?" Their voices had been getting louder but now Mycroft was on the verge of yelling. "Because tomorrow will be 16 years since out father died and Sherlock blames himself for his death! He'll talk to you because you don't know what happened and he thinks that anyone else will make him go back to therapy."

"So he favors me for my ignorance?"

"Yes. Unless you care to admit that you were listening in this morning?" John stiffened. "Yes, I know. How much did you hear?"

"All I heard was Sherlock being pressured into talking about his father - which he was obviously uncomfortable with - and being told that he had to get over it! I'm sorry but that doesn't seem quite right."

"What doesn't seem right is you thinking what's best for Sherlock after knowing him for two weeks! Stop inflicting your opinions on the world. You know nothing -"

Mycroft stopped when Mrs. Holmes stormed into the sitting room with Sherlock close behind. John had realized that they had been shouting at each other loud enough to wake everyone up. And if he didn't feel guilty enough, then seeing Sherlock in the doorway with one hand pulling at his hair and the other wrapped in his night shirt (a gray t-shirt) sleeve, all while wearing a terrified frown, would definitely do it. The poor man looked as though the apocalypse had started.

"What is going on?" Mrs. Holmes demanded.

"Nothing, mother. John and I were having an argument - I apologize that we woke you and Sherlock," Mycroft said.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Yes, I'm sorry Mrs. Holmes. Maybe we're just a bit tired," John felt as if he was a child again.

He looked back at Sherlock again. He was tugging even harder on his hair now.

"Well then, I think it would be best if we would all go to bed. Come on, Sherly," she put her hand on Sherlock's shoulder and led him back through the hallway.

Mycroft followed them but John was too embarrassed to move so he stood in the middle of the living room. Hopefully, no one would care in the morning and it wouldn't be brought up. Who wants to bring up uncomfortable situations on Christmas morning (and yes, John knew that the technicalities of time made it Christmas morning then, but he didn't want to think about it)? He was convinced that in the morning he would be able to coax Sherlock into talking a bit and Mycroft wouldn't be such a prat.


	3. Run, Run, Run

**AN: Yeah, I know it's been a while. Sorry but I truly am lazy. I hope that the next chapter will come sooner. Have fun reading! ^.^**

The first thing that John thought of when he woke up was the fight. He didn't want to face anyone but figured that he couldn't stay in bed all day on Christmas. Anyway, it was getting late. Sherlock always woke up in between 8:30 and 9:00. There was never an exception. John had to wake up before or with him so he wouldn't get into any trouble on his own and John had started naturally waking up earlier. So when John accidentally slept until 10 that morning and Sherlock wasn't up yet, he was more than worried. He had rushed back upstairs after he noticed that Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes we're alone in the sitting room and knocked on Sherlock's door. There was no answer. After a few more tries, John opened the door and stared.

All thoughts of being embarrassed about last night's fight had disappeared. Instead, the thoughts that invaded his mind were, "Shit! Shit! Shit!" as he stared at Sherlock's bed and moved farther in the empty room.

John stood, gaping, at the foot of the unmade bed. He couldn't bring himself to do anything else. His exhausted and shocked mind went blank, only allowing him to stare.

"John?" he heard Mycroft's overly-posh voice come from hallway and the sounds of his well-polished shoes hitting the floor. Three strides and Mycroft was there in the doorway, peering at John.

"Where's Sherlock?" Mycroft asked with a teensy bit of concern edging his voice.

"I don't know," John muttered barely above a whisper.

"What?"

"I don't - oh god," John ran past Mycroft and down the hall.

They searched for Sherlock for almost an hour. They checked the first floor, the second floor, the cellar, and the attic; every little nook and cranny where he could possibly hide in. But it ended with a panicking John in the library and a only slightly less panicky Mrs. Holmes. Of course, Mycroft was calm in all of this - or he at least he pretended to be calm.

While John was taking deep breaths, trying his best to calm down, Mrs. Holmes made a epiphanic face.

"Mycroft," Mrs. Holmes delicately put a hand on his arm. "Do you think that he could be in London?"

Mycroft nodded. "Yes. I know exactly where he is."

He started walking out of the room, shouting over his shoulder for John to follow him. If it meant finding Sherlock, John would go anywhere with Mycroft (but it was only to London so John felt a bit safer).

"Where are we going?" John asked as they put on their coats.

"You heard," Mycroft picked up his umbrella and held open the front door for John. "London. I'll explain on the way there."

* * *

John watched the trees turn into blurs as they drove past them. Uncomfortable silence had been filling the car for the last 15 minutes and that was all he could do. John was just starting to wonder if it was possible to die from awkwardness when Mycroft spoke up.

"He's at our father's grave," he said nonchalantly.

John turned towards him. "Oh," he didn't know what else to say.

"I told you last night, it's been 16 years since our father died and Sherlock never takes it well. He thinks that he was the one that caused it - or he didn't think so until family started blaming him."

"Why?"

"Our father was taking an experimental medication for dementia," he started with a hint of sorrow in his voice. "On Christmas night, he and Sherlock were alone while mother and I had gone out. Sherlock was asleep before we left and while he slept, father had a stroke from the medication. We returned and he was dead in the next room but Sherlock was still asleep on the sofa, he woke up from mother's frantic sobbing. He didn't take it well.

"Our grandfather never liked Sherlock; he didn't like how he's autistic and constantly called him a freak. When the bastard heard about his son's death, he told Sherlock that he should have noticed what was happening and that if he hadn't been sleeping like a child, then father would still be alive. The funeral was the worst of all. He still wouldn't shut up and Sherlock eventually had a breakdown I the bathroom - which, of course, caused our grandfather to be even more hateful.

"We were all glad when that man died but Sherlock couldn't stop blaming himself. Every year he gets upset but I'm afraid this is the worst I've seen him in years," Mycroft's usual emotionless mask that John had always seen on him had disappeared for a second. The memories of losing his father and how Sherlock lives with guilt were painful and he had trouble hiding it. But, his eyes lost all trace of him ever feeling and he unclenched his teeth seconds after.

"Wait," John's brow furrowed together. "Is that why he doesn't like taking medication?"

Mycroft smiled slightly. "You catch on fast. He refused medication for a month after our father's death and when his behavior became more than anyone could handle, he was forced to a therapist which only made matters worse. The man was horrible at his job - he didn't even know how to handle a breakdown. I would be surprised if he still had a practice."

"And he thinks that he's going to be sent back someday?"

"He had trouble with past carers who knew too much."

"They would… threaten him with therapy?"

"Needless to say, they aren't carers anymore."

John pondered that for awhile. "How can you do that?"

"I simply just send out information to anyone who employs carers. It's not hard at all."

"Right, what's your job again? A _minor_ part in the British government?"

Mycroft chuckled. It was quite terrifying. "My brother would tell you that I _am_ the British government, but that's a bit of an exaggeration. Although, I could ruin someone's life single-handedly."

"What does someone need to do to get on your bad side?"

"Various things but the main ones are either treason or not take care of Sherlock. He's had carers who leave him alone, let him not eat, or let him run away."

"Should I take that as a hint?" John asked, annoyance edging his voice. Mycroft cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "Tell me, when we find Sherlock, should I quit as soon as we return to your mother's house or wait until we get back to Baker Street?"

Mycroft didn't answer. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, his gloves making a scrunching sound against the steering wheel. John was appalled that the question was actually being considered. And was even more appalled by himself. He was losing another patient and only after two weeks! It must have been some new record. Why couldn't he keep a job? He had only quit once when he was seeing two patients that both required his full attention. He had never done anything wrong but he was always being reassigned to other patients, or just temping. Families were always deciding to take over and, of course, no one could say that they couldn't.

"I think," Mycroft said, startling John out of his bitter thoughts. "That it would be for the best if you were to resign and return to London alone tomorrow."

John felt heat rise in his cheeks. He desperately wanted a wall to punch or a chair to throw. Something violent he could do to get rid of all of his rising anger. And then, the little bit of sorrow. Losing another job wasn't bad enough. He was losing Sherlock, who he was sure he would be able to get to know and become a permanent carer. Sherlock was different in so many ways; John didn't know where to start. All he could think about was how much he liked Sherlock and wished he could stay with him so the feeling could possibly be mutual.

"Don't take it personally, John," Mycroft had the nerve to say. "You know how my brother has trouble with carers."

Tears started gathering in John's eyes but he wouldn't let them fall and be noticed. Now, he desperately wanted to punch a Mycroft.


End file.
